Gloat not, O misfortune
Your triumphs are not eternal,

If Birds were Man’s Mentor
Would we a better breed be
 

The cradle of friendship
Is too delicate for words

For all my proclamations  of belief, 
Which in intent and conviction are true,

Endless, fruitless, journeys
That we oft embark upon,

In the precincts of the mind,
In the fortress I call mine,

O Demise, thou art a friend true
When I feel lost and dark blue

The capriciousness of destiny
at play I see in every day

Is my Time really mine
Or, is there a paradox there,

Light up the wick of Conscience,
And the waiting lamp within,